When All Is Stripped Away
by Collegekid2006
Summary: *ALSO CHECK OUT THE SEQUEL, WHAT ONCE WAS LOST* Chief Vick is dead. Lassiter is off the force. Shawn's psychic wings are clipped. What is going on in the Psych universe? And will anything ever be able to make it right?
1. Chapter 1

_Okay...so a while ago, I was an idiot and accidentally deleted this story (I think it was 5 chapters at the time). I didn't immediately repost it, as I didn't have it neatly assembled anywhere on my computer, so it involved some digging and effort. I wasn't going to worry about it at first, but I've had a few people ask me what happened to it, which finally motivated me to get off my butt and get started on it again...so, here it is...this is just the first 5 chapters, all in one super-chapter. Sorry it's so long. I will get back to this one and update it ASAP, once I finish up with Male Bonding and/or With a Dad Like This I Don't Need Enemies...both of which I am working on updating as we speak. _

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Lassiter laughed bitterly, leaning back in the plush chair.

"Do I want to talk about it?" He repeated scornfully. "No, I don't want to talk about it."

The counselor made a note on her pad, nodding in supposed understanding.

_God, I can't stand that nod…_Lassiter thought spitefully.

_I can hear the marbles rattling from here…_

He stood up, pacing the length of her small, sterile office.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

He suddenly felt caged.

Confined.

The counselor just watched him, silently writing notes on that damn pad.

He stopped pacing and glared at her.

"I don't want to talk about it." He said again.

"I'm not making you say anything."

"Good."

He marched to the door, but stopped when he heard her voice again.

"I'm not making you say anything," she clarified quietly. "But I _am_ going to make you stay here for the full hour. Department regulations."

Lassiter whirled around, his eyes burning with hatred.

"I'm walking out, and there's not a goddamn thing you can do to stop me!" He growled.

She stared up at him for a moment, calmly laying the pad down on the small end table next to her chair.

Her eyes were kind but unyielding.

"I could have your badge with one phone call, Detective." She informed him coolly. "You know it and I know it. Right now, I am the only reason you even have a badge. If you don't want to talk to me, I can't make you. You can pace until you wear my carpet out and not say a word. I don't care. But you _will_ stay in this room for fifty minutes and not a minute less, or you will be suspended without pay and possibly even fired. Are we clear?"

His eyes narrowed, but he knew he was beaten.

He stomped back into the room, continuing to pace the same path.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

"You have 35 minutes left." She informed him a little while later.

He didn't answer.

He just kept pacing.

Silently.

Angrily.

"You might as well sit down. That's a long time to pace."

He paused for a moment, considering, but didn't take her up on her offer.

He knew it was a trap.

"You wouldn't have to say anything," she promised, reading his mind.

He looked over at the chair, still wary.

It did look more comfortable than standing…

"Fine," he snapped, collapsing into the seat. "I'll sit, but I'm not talking."

"Fine."

They regarded each other stubbornly; both determined not to be the first to cave.

"Do you know why you're here?" She said finally, picking the pad up again.

Lassiter didn't answer. He just clamped his mouth even tighter.

"Detective, answering my question doesn't qualify as 'talking about it'," she assured him. "It just lets me know you haven't had a complete psychotic break. Do you know why you're here?"

"I punched out an asshole." He muttered finally, digging his nails into the soft arms of the chair.

"That asshole was your superior officer." She reminded him.

"Only in rank." Lassiter snorted, his eyes narrowing again.

"Why did you punch him out?" She pried.

"That's talking about it."

"Okay, okay…" she put the pen down. "You don't have to talk about it."

He nodded victoriously, but for some reason his mouth didn't stop running.

Even when he tried to stop it, it just kept talking…

"He pulled me off the case."

"Which case?"

"You know what case."

"I know."

Lassiter stood up, pacing again. But it was slower this time. Each step was deliberate.

"He said I was too close to it…he wanted someone else on it."

"And what did you say?"

"I socked him."

"How did that feel?"

Lassiter looked at her, one eyebrow cocked in a bitter, satisfied grin.

"Damn good."

She smiled back.

"I bet."

Lassiter sighed. For a moment, she thought he was going to sit back down, but he didn't. He remained standing, trapped somewhere between the floor and the chair.

"Do you think he had a point?" She asked quietly.

"What?"

He was glaring at her again.

"Do you think he had a point? Are you too close?"

This time, he did sit down.

"No. Hell no."

"Are you sure?"

His fists were balled so tightly she could see the skin stretched taut over his knuckles.

"No."

"She _was_ your Chief."

He nodded stiffly, his eyes drifting off.

"Yeah. She was. And now she's dead."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Detective," she leaned forward, her hand resting on his knee. "I'm a grief counselor. I'm not here to talk about you punching out any assholes. I'm here to talk about Chief Vick's murder."

He stood up, checking his watch.

"Too bad for you, Doc. That's fifty minutes."

He walked to the door without so much as a glance back.

"I'm here if you decide to talk." She told him.

He paused, but didn't turn back around.

"I don't need to talk." He muttered. "I need to catch the son of a bitch that killed her."

* * *

"What are you doing here?" Juliet hissed, grabbing Lassiter's arm and dragging him back outside the moment he set foot in the precinct.

He wrenched his arm free of her grasp and tried to step around her, but she blocked his path again.

"What the hell are you talking about?" He grumbled.

"You gave Chief Brighton a black-eye! _And_ you almost broke his nose!"

"So?" He sneered, unable to suppress his grin at the memory. When he closed his eyes, he could still feel the morbidly satisfying sensation of the bone crunching against his fist.

"So, he's still really pissed at you!"

Lassiter snorted, his eyes narrowing at the perceived challenge.

"I don't give a damn how pissed _Brighton_ is." He growled, pointedly leaving the Chief of his title.

This omission did not escape Juliet's notice.

"Carlton—" she started, but he sensed her impending sympathy and silenced her with an angry wave of his hand.

"O'Hara," he snapped, finally managing to brush her aside and get in the door. "This is _my_ damn precinct, and I'm sure as hell not going to let some incompetent moron with more connections than brains run me out."

"He's talking about assault charges," Juliet said quietly, stopping Lassiter in his tracks.

He turned around slowly.

"What?"

"I told you. He's pissed, Carlton."

"And I told _you_ I don't give a damn."

"You'd better give a damn!" Juliet scolded, her eyes meeting his firmly. "Because he's serious. If you go in there and start something now, he's not just going to suspend you. He's not just going to fire you. He's going to take your badge and make sure you never get it back. He'll take you down, and he won' stop until you're down for good."

"He can't--"

"Yes, he can. You know he can. You said it yourself. He has connections, Carlton."

Lassiter blinked slowly.

"This is _my_ precinct." He said again, his jaw setting.

"I know."

"It's _my_ case."

She shook her head helplessly.

"I know. But it's not anymore. Giving Brighton another black eye and getting yourself arrested for assault isn't going to change that. Getting thrown off the force isn't going catch the creep who--"

One sharp glare from Lassiter was enough to stop her from completing the sentence…but it was too late. The thought hung in air between them, their minds filling in the unspoken blanks even though neither detective wanted them to.

"You shouldn't have pissed him off…" Juliet murmured finally.

"He shouldn't have pissed _me_ off." Lassiter shot back.

"I know."

"It's my case, O'Hara."

"It's not a case, Carlton."

He stared at her, dumbfounded.

"What the hell does that mean?" He demanded, his voice almost inaudible with rage.

But Juliet didn't even blink at his rancor.

"It's not a case, Carlton. You know it's not a case. It's Chief Vick."

"So?"

"So, it's personal."

"Damn straight it's personal!" He yelled, louder than he'd actually meant to. "Some son of a bitch murdered a police chief!"

"I know."

"If you know, then why the hell are you standing here talking to me? Why aren't you out there catching the bastard?"

Juliet's eyes flashed defensively at the accusation. She spun on her heel and marched past Lassiter into the station.

"You're not the only one who wants to catch them, Carlton." She said over her shoulder. "You're not the only one."

He silently watched her walk away.

For a minute, he thought about following her…walking straight to his desk as if nothing had happened, Brighton be damned…

But he knew she was right.

He couldn't go back in there. Not if he wanted to be the one to catch the bastards.

He marched out of that station, his fingers gripping the badge that still hung on his belt. When he got in his car, he ripped it off and almost violently threw it into the glove compartment, certain he'd never need again.

For this one, all he needed was his gun.

_I don't care what O'Hara says. This is my case…_

* * *

_"I'll see you tomorrow, Carlton." _

The voice echoed through Lassiter's head as his eyes shot open.

He sat up, a cold sweat already breaking out across his back and forehead.

_"I'll see you tomorrow, Carlton." _

He fell back onto the bed, letting himself sink into the mattress as he draped his arm over his eyes, trying to block out the sun that was just beginning to peek through the window.

It was the same damn thing every night, ever since they found her body.

The same damn dream…

Even with his eyes open now, he could still hear her voice…still hear the gentle, rhythmic clicking of her shoes on the precinct floor as she walked by his desk on her way home.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Carlton."

He hadn't even looked up from his work.

"See you, Chief," he'd muttered, too absorbed in his papers to even fully realize he had said anything at all.

Ten seconds later, the station door had banged shut, and she was gone.

_Gone… _

He rolled over and buried his head under the pillow, trying to smother the rushing thoughts that were sweeping over him.

_I was still there… _

_I should have heard something… _

_I should have known… _

Sometimes in his nightly dream, he did know.

Sometimes in his dream, he heard her scream before they grabbed her…heard her calling his name…

Sometimes in his dream, he ran outside…gun blazing…just in time…

…Just in time…

But his dreams always ended the same way.

He woke up, and she was still dead.

_I should have known… _

_I should have heard something… _

But he hadn't known.

How could he have known?

The first clue he had that anything was wrong was when he left two hours later and her car was still in the parking lot.

_She never even made it to her car… _

The moment he'd seen that car, sitting untouched in her space, he knew she was dead. Even if she was alive at that moment, she was dead.

The next two days were a blur.

No ransom note.

No demands.

Nothing.

Just a body washed up on the shore, two days later.

He threw the pillow off his head and sat up, knowing it was pointless trying to go back to sleep.

_I was there… _

_I should have known… _

He stood at the window, blinking into the blinding pink morning sun.

He knew had no reason to be up.

He had no reason to get dressed, to go outside.

He had no where to go.

_Today, I'm not a cop… _

_I'm not anything… _

_What the hell am I supposed to do? _

* * *

"Detective?"

The counselor blinked in surprise, stepping aside to let Lassiter stalk into her office.

For a moment, she was too stunned to speak, but she found her voice after he had angrily plopped down into the plush chair.

"What are you doing here?" She finally managed to ask.

"Sitting for fifty minutes…_not_ talking." He snapped, clicking the timer on his watch.

She resisted the impulse to grab her pad and start jotting notes as she quickly sat in the chair across from him.

"I'm a bit surprised to see you…" she admitted. "They told me you were suspended."

He scowled.

"Officially, I'm not. Officially, they can't touch me…yet. Unofficially, I have to lay low for a while."

"I see," she nodded. "So, unofficially-officially, why are you _here_?"

"Because if I don't come like they told me to, they'll have cause to officially suspend me. And I'm sure as hell not going to give that bastard the satisfaction."

"Which bastard is that?"

"Brighton."

"I see."

"Stop saying that!" Lassiter growled.

"Okay."

They sat in silence for what felt like an eternity, but according to Lassiter's stopwatch it was only a minute and a half.

Finally, the counselor spoke again.

"So, to be clear…we're going to sit here for another 46 minutes and _not_ talk?"

Lassiter nodded stiffly, refusing to fall into her subtle web of conversation.

"Just checking."

She sat back in her chair, her eyes meeting his gently.

"Can I ask you a question?" She asked after another decade-long minute of silence. "It's completely unrelated to anything involving talking about it, I promise."

He glared at her, but finally shrugged, which she chose to interpret as assent.

"Where's your badge?"

His eyes narrowed dangerously at the question and his fists curled up tighter, but he didn't open his mouth.

"I'm just curious," she continued, eyeing him carefully. "You were wearing it on your belt last time you were here. If you weren't officially suspended, you still have it. Why aren't you wearing it?"

His nails dug into the soft fabric that covered the arm of the chair as he fought the secret, inexplicable desire to answer the question.

Finally, he lost the internal battle.

"I don't need it," he muttered quietly, barely loud enough for her to hear.

"But you're officially still on the force, right?"

"Yes."

"Then why--"

"I. Just. Don't."

"Okay."

She let the matter drop, but now the question was really starting to bug Lassiter. She could almost see it festering under his skin.

He stood up and started to pace.

"I don't need it." He said again, louder this time.

"You said that."

"It's in my car."

"So, you still have it."

"Of course I still have it!" He snapped. "I just don't need it until after."

"After what?"

He stopped pacing.

For a long moment, he didn't say anything…almost like he was trying to figure out the answer himself.

"After I catch the son of bitch."

"The one who killed Chief Vick?"

His jaw tightened.

"I'm sorry. That's talking about it." The counselor whispered.

Lassiter nodded.

"Yeah. It is."

"They'll get him. The paper said they have some promising leads…"

"The paper." Lassiter snorted. "The papers print whatever the hell we tell them to. They don't know anything. We never tell them anything."

"What didn't you tell them?"

"You really want to know?" Lassiter growled, collapsing back into the chair. "We didn't tell them how she died. We just said she was found two days after she disappeared, washed up on the beach."

"That wasn't the truth?"

Lassiter's eyes closed as he leaned back in the chair.

"Not all of it."

"What is all of it?"

"You don't want to know."

"You can tell me."

His eyes opened again, staring vacantly up at the ceiling. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and distant-sounding.

"We didn't tell them that whoever killed her tortured her for two days first, then slit her throat and let her bleed to death before they dumped her body in the ocean. We didn't tell them that whatever the hell they tied her up with was so tight it left inch-deep gashes in both her wrists…that there wasn't a single goddamn call or ransom demand…they just wanted her dead. They just wanted her dead."

He blinked slowly and looked up at the counselor, as if realizing for the first time that she was there.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"I know."

His watch beeped. He turned it off and slowly stood up, crossing to the door without another word.

"It's okay to want to kill the bastard who did that to her, you know." She said as he reached the threshold.

He paused, turning around again.

"What?"

"It's okay to want to kill the bastard. It's natural."

"Good."

"You're not listening. It's okay to _want_ to kill the bastard."

Their eyes locked, both of them reading the other perfectly.

"I'm not going to kill him." Lassiter said finally.

It sounded unconvincing even to him.

"Then why don't you need your badge to find him?"

He thought for a moment, then finally shrugged.

"Because I'm going to kill the bastard."

* * *

Lassiter sat at the restaurant bar, quietly nursing his second scotch.

Somehow, after admitting to a grief counselor that he intended to commit a cold-blooded murder, getting drunk seemed to be the only thing to do.

The sights and sounds of the busy restaurant around him quickly faded into oblivion as his dull mind began to numbly fixate on the task at hand.

_I have to find him first… _

_How the hell am I going to find him…? _

Suddenly, a sharp tap on the shoulder jolted him out of his own head and back into reality.

"Hey, Lassie!" An all-too familiar voice quipped.

He turned around slowly as Shawn slid onto the stool next to him.

"Spencer." He growled, hoping the psychic detective would just leave. But Shawn never knew when to leave…

"I was supposed to meet my dad here for lunch," Shawn sighed, apparently oblivious to Lassiter's desire for solitude. "But he stood me up. Can you believe that? Stood up by my own father! There must've been an urgent fishing derby on TV…anyway, what are you doing here?"

"Drinking." Lassiter grunted.

"Ah."

"_Alone._"

"Right."

Shawn pointedly ignored the hint and remained firmly planted on the stool, watching as Lassiter drained his glass and ordered another.

"Kind of early for that kind of drinking, isn't it?" He asked quietly.

"Nope."

"Okay."

For a moment, they sat silently side-by-side, both knowing what the other was thinking though neither of them would come out and say it.

"Don't you have someone else to harass?" Lassiter growled finally.

"Don't you have another cop to punch out?" Shawn shot back gently.

Lassiter scowled at him out of the corner of his eye.

"How the hell—"

Shawn just grinned, tapping his temple knowingly. Lassiter rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah." He muttered with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Hey," Shawn shrugged. "I'd have knocked him one, too."

"Spencer. Shut up."

"Okay."

Shawn, for once, shut up and just watched quietly as Lassiter sipped at his third scotch.

After a few minutes of hostile silence, he sighed in resignation and stood up to leave.

"Well, I'll see you around, Lassie."

"Yeah," Lassiter muttered into his glass. "Just walk away, Spencer."

Shawn stopped and slowly turned back around.

"Excuse me?"

Lassiter looked up at him, his eyes narrowing angrily.

"You heard me, Psychic!" He snapped. "Just walk away and leave the hard cases to the _real_ cops!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Shawn demanded through clenched teeth, sitting back down again.

Lassiter took the last gulp of his scotch and flipped the glass over on the bar, bringing it down with enough force that Shawn was surprised it didn't shatter in his tightly-wound fingers.

"Where the hell are your damn psychic visions now, Spencer?" He spat disdainfully. "Where the hell is your little pull-a-rabbit-out-of-your-ass routine _now_?"

"Me and my ass-rabbit were told to get the hell out of the precinct!" Shawn returned bitterly, jabbing an accusing finger into Lassiter's chest with each new point. "_Your_ new Chief told me that the _real_ cops didn't need my psychic visions! _Your_ new Chief said if I ever showed up at a crime scene again, he'd have me _and_ my ass-rabbit arrested for interfering with a police investigation! And that's a hell of a lot nicer than the way he put, too!"

"He's not my new Chief." Lassiter grimaced. "And since when does the threat of prison stop _you_ from interfering with a police investigation?"

Shawn didn't answer.

He didn't need to.

They both knew the answer already.

"She pulled my butt out of the fire a few times." He said finally, smiling palely.

Lassiter's scowl only deepened.

"I know."

"I tried, Lassie. I was there when they found--"

"I know."

"Then what the hell do you want from me?" He sighed. "I can't do anything if they don't want my help. And, believe me, they don't want my help."

Lassiter turned his glass over again, his finger absently tracing the rim.

"But _I_ do, Spencer." He mumbled, his eyes fixed on the bar in front of him.

Shawn blinked, unable to hide his surprise.

"What?"

"I'm not going to say it again."

"Lassie--"

Lassiter stood up, still not looking directly at Shawn.

"Never mind, Spencer. I'll take care of it myself. You just walk away."

He dumped some crumpled-up bills on the bar and turned to leave.

"Lassie, wait." Shawn called after him.

"What?"

"I'm not walking away from anything."

* * *

Shawn slid into the driver's seat of Lassiter's car, holding his hand out for the keys.

"What the hell are you doing, Spencer?" Lassiter demanded.

"Not spending my entire afternoon drinking, for one." Shawn replied, not missing a beat.

Lassiter scowled, but eventually handed the keys over and got into the passenger seat.

"Where are we going?" Shawn asked quietly as he pulled out of the parking lot. "I assume you're about as welcome around the station now as I am."

"Great," Lassiter muttered, fully realizing for the first time how far he'd fallen. "I'm no better than a damn psychic."

"Hey," Shawn quipped. "Some people would consider a psychic a step up."

"Who, exactly, considers a psychic a step up from a cop?" Lassiter snorted.

Shawn shrugged.

"Mostly me."

"Shut up, Spencer."

"Okay…but I still need to know where we're going."

Lassiter groaned, closing his eyes as he finally began to feel the scotch taking its toll.

"I don't know," he mumbled, his mind growing cloudier by the moment. "I don't have a damn clue."

"Maybe we should get one of those," Shawn suggested.

"One what?"

"A clue…"

Lassiter shot him a scornful look out of the corner of his eye.

"I know, I know." Shawn said, waving him off before he had a chance to form a syllable. "'Shut up, Spencer.' Right?"

Lassiter just grunted his assent, too lightheaded from the alcohol to actually say anything else.

They rode in silence until Shawn finally brought the car to a slow stop outside Psych. He turned it off and jumped out breezily, but Lassiter didn't move.

"No way!" He shook his head vehemently.

"What?" Shawn asked, turning back around and looking somewhat offended. "You have a better place to start?"

"I'm not going anywhere near your sordid little voodoo shack!"

"You know," Shawn sighed irritably. "You're a bit of a mean drunk. And for someone who claims they want my help, you're sure not acting like you want my help."

"Maybe I don't." Lassiter grumbled, crossing his arms stubbornly.

Shawn just shrugged and slowly made his way to the door.

"Okay. Then you can just sit there," he agreed. After a few steps, he added over his shoulder, "And you might as well get comfortable, because you're not getting your car keys back until you sleep it off."

"Maybe I don't want my damn car keys, either." Lassiter muttered under his breath as he watched Shawn unlock the Psych office and step inside. He settled back into his seat, prepared to sit there all night if he had to.

_Damn Spencer... _

_Who the hell needs him, anyway? _

_I'll catch this son of a bitch on my own… _

After a few minutes of sulking, he finally opened his eyes again.

_Damn it…_he groaned, kicking the dashboard.

_Spencer still has my car keys… _

_And the copy of the case file I gave him before Brighton kicked him off… _

_I don't have a choice… _

He got out of the car, slamming the door loudly behind him as he marched into the building.

Shawn was sitting behind his desk when Lassiter walked in, watching the door expectantly.

"Welcome to my sordid little voodoo shack." He grinned.

Lassiter scowled at him, still lingering hesitantly in the doorway.

"Where's you little sidekick?" He asked, not really caring.

"He went back to work for a while. We don't exactly have a heavy caseload since Chief Brighton kicked us out."

Shawn leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on the desk and clasping his hands behind his head like a Private Eye in some film noir.

Lassiter noticed the file on the Chief's murder was lying open by Shawn's heel. He reached over and grabbed it, glancing through the already well-worn pages, though he had already memorized most of them, anyway.

Shawn watched him silently for a few minutes, then dropped his feet back to the floor and leaned across the desk.

"Where do we start?" He asked.

Lassiter shrugged, tossing the file back to him.

"There's no where _to_ start, Spencer. At least, there's no where to start that won't involve somehow pissing of Brighton. We can't investigate without interfering with the cops."

Shawn grinned, and Lassiter could already see his wheels beginning to turn.

"Oh, Lassie." He clucked, shaking his head. "There's _always_ a way to avoid cops."


	2. Chapter 2

Juliet stepped into the diner and glanced around nervously until she saw Lassiter. He was sitting at one of the back booths by himself, watching the front door with the detached, jaded air of someone who just didn't give a damn anymore.

He didn't smile when he saw her enter, didn't react at all. His eyes didn't even flash in recognition as she slid into the booth across from him.

"I shouldn't even be here," she said quietly, propping the menu up on the table to give them the illusion of privacy.

"You called _me, _O'Hara." Lassiter grunted.

He wiped a hand across his bloodshot eyes languidly.

"I know," she sighed, her eyes still searching the restaurant as if they might be discovered at any moment. "But if Brighton hears about it…"

"O'Hara." He snapped impatiently, a man on a mission. "Do you have something for me or not?"

"Yeah."

She reached into her bag and pulled out a plain manila file folder. She slid it across the table slowly, almost hesitantly.

Lassiter opened it and glanced at the black and white mug shot photo inside.

"I know this guy," he mumbled to himself, his forehead wrinkling as his muddled mind tried to organize his thoughts. "James, right? Howard James."

"Yeah," Juliet nodded, her voice suddenly barely audible.

"The Chief took him down a year ago…" Lassiter continued quietly, his eyes staring blankly at the hard, cruel face in front of him. "He smuggled illegally modified weapons over the Mexican border. Sold them on both sides. He was too small-time for the Feds to move on him, and the DA was dragging their feet…so she pushed."

"She got them to indict," Juliet agreed. "But none of the serious charges stuck. He got six months, was out in four. He was released three weeks before Chief Vick…" she paused, but finally decided not to finish the sentence and just moved on. "No one's seen him since. He never reported to his parole officer."

Lassiter nodded and shut the file again, passing it back to Juliet.

"He's long gone. He has to be. Parole violators don't stick around. Not for three weeks."

"That's what Brighton said. He's focusing on current investigations where someone might have wanted her dead. But he's wrong, Carlton."

"Probably," Lassiter snorted. "He's a moron. But what makes you think it's James?"

"Her body was dumped in the ocean. Whoever dumped it had a boat, or access to a boat. That's where I started. Old cases involving boats."

"You can rent a boat."

"Or you can own one."

She opened the file again and showed Lassiter what she was talking about.

"James owned a boat…a small yacht, to be exact. He used it to help smuggle the guns. Three days before he was arrested, he stopped paying the marina where he kept it docked and it just disappeared. He probably knew he was going down and didn't want his boat to be seized when he did, so he hid somewhere."

"He hid a yacht?" Lassiter asked, not sounding in the least bit convinced. "How the _hell _do you hide a yacht?"

"I don't know," Juliet shook her head. "I don't know about any of this, Carlton…not for sure. I just know it's the best lead I've found, and Brighton won't let me follow it up. That's why I called you."

She paused again, her fingers sadly tracing the edges of the file folder.

"He told you to drop it?" Lassiter concluded, his voice low and dangerous. "He said it was a dead-end, right?"

"Yeah."

He picked up the file again, memorizing every nuance in the face of the man who might have killed Chief Vick.

"I'll find him, O'Hara."

Juliet finally saw something spark behind his placid, almost dead, eyes.

She wasn't sure what it was, exactly…but she knew it scared her.

"Carlton, you know you can't arrest him." She warned him softly. "You can't even confront him. You're not on the force right now. You can't do anything officially. You can't touch him."

Whatever it was that had lit his eyes a moment ago only burned hotter now.

"Then what the hell do you want me to do?" He demanded. "You can't give me this and then expect me to--"

"Just find him." Juliet cut him off. "Then let me know where he is. Let me sort it out from there. At the very least, I can bust him on a parole violation. That might be all he's guilty of."

"You don't believe that."

"No," she admitted. "But until I have proof, I can't do anything about it. And neither can you. Just track him down, Carlton, and let me take it from there. Can you do that?"

He opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment the alarm on his watch began to beep. He turned it off and slowly stood up, taking the file with him.

"I'll find him, O'Hara," he said again, then was gone.

Juliet sat in numb silence, her stomach lurching as she wondered if she had just sent her partner to his own demise.

"Excuse me, Miss." A voice from the booth behind her interrupted her thoughts. "Can I borrow your ketchup?"

She picked it up almost without even realizing it and turned around to hand it to whoever had asked for it.

"Shawn!" She gasped when she saw his grinning face looking back at her from the next table. "What the heck—"

"Hey, Jules."

He stood up and slipped into the seat across from her.

"Have you been there the whole time?"

"Of course."

"I thought you were going to be with Carlton." She chided, putting the ketchup back down. "You _said_ you were working together."

Suddenly, her stomach felt slightly more at-ease just knowing Shawn was around, but she still couldn't shake the sinking feeling that Lassiter was going to do something stupid.

"He didn't tell me about your meeting," Shawn replied simply. "He's been trying to ditch me since yesterday. You know, I don't think the man fully understands the concept of asking for help. If I didn't set this up myself, I wouldn't have even known about it."

"Shawn, there was a reason I called you first," Juliet sighed. "I don't know if James has anything to do with Chief Vick's murder! It's just a hunch! I called you to find out if you could get a psychic reading on it…I didn't want to tell Carlton I had a lead until I was sure. I mean, he's already punched out a cop! What do you think he's going to do if he finds the man he thinks killed the Chief?"

Shawn leaned across the table, his hand brushing past hers.

"Jules, he needs this," he whispered. "You know he does. He has to do _something. _Or at least _feel_ like he's doing something. He can't stop being a cop. It would kill him."

"But if he does something--"

"He won't, Jules." Shawn promised. "Even if he wanted to, I wouldn't let him."

Juliet's eyes met Shawn's squarely, brimming with concern.

"I don't want to lose my partner, Shawn."

"You won't. I'll be there the whole time, whether he wants me there or not."

"Okay."

She managed a small smile as the knot in her stomach began to subside.

She stood up and turned to leave.

"You be careful, too," she added. "I don't want to lose the only psychic I know, either."

"Please." Shawn snorted, grinning back up at her. "Like you could ever get rid of me."


	3. Chapter 3

"Detective," the counselor spoke quietly as Lassiter fell into his now usual plush chair. "I think I have to caution you about something."

"What?" He barked, forgetting for a moment that he didn't actually want to talk to her.

He watched the pen twirling absently in her slender fingers, only half-listening to what she was saying.

"Doctor-Patient Confidentiality isn't absolute," she continued in that hushed, professional tone that always made him hate her just a little.

His eyes narrowed spitefully.

Suddenly, he wasn't interested in the pen anymore.

"What the hell does that mean?"

She rested the pen on her knee, clasping her hands together in front of her.

Almost like she was praying.

"After our last session, I just feel I should warn you. The moment I have reason to suspect you're an imminent threat to yourself or someone else, it's not only my right to break confidentiality and report it, it's my ethical obligation." She told him evenly.

He bristled as he sat back in his chair, his jaw setting firmly.

He finally remembered why he didn't want to talk her.

When he didn't respond to her warning, she glanced down at her watch with a sigh.

"I assume we won't be talking for the next 44 minutes, then?" She mused dully.

This time, Lassiter didn't even nod in acknowledgement.

He wasn't going to give her the satisfaction.

"Okay," she shrugged, settling into her own chair but not breaking eye-contact. "44 minutes isn't the record, but it's damn close."

The silent minutes ticked by slowly. Lassiter had to fight the urge to break their defiant stare-down and check his watch to see exactly how much time had passed.

Finally, the counselor cleared her throat and broke the silence.

"I notice you're wearing your badge again," she commented, pointing at his belt.

He glanced down at it, shrugging limply but still not responding.

"Does that mean you're unofficially officially back on the force?" She pressed, undeterred by the complete lack of communication coming from the other chair.

He hesitated, but finally gave up trying to fight it anymore.

He couldn't let that one slide.

"No." He snapped, then clamped his jaw shut again.

It was a small victory for the counselor, but one syllable was all he was going to give.

He was determined that she wasn't going to drag anything else out of him.

Not this time.

But, damn it, she just wouldn't give up.

"Then what changed?" She asked. "Last time you were here, you said you didn't need it."

Lassiter blinked slowly, caught slightly off-guard by the query.

What _had_ changed?

"Nothing," he growled finally. "My belt is just too damn light without it."

She smiled gently.

"I understand."

"No, you don't."

"I don't understand light belts?"

"You don't understand why I need it!"

He was shouting now, and the overstuffed chair suddenly seemed very confining. He pushed out of it, pacing the now well-worn path between the door and the chair.

She watched him for a minute before asking the inevitable question.

"Why do you need it?"

"Why do I need what?" He mumbled distractedly, his eyes looking over the framed ink blot prints that covered the walls.

"Why do you need your badge?"

His hand instinctively fumbled for it, his fingers running over the familiar grooves and dimples.

"I don't know."

"Are you still on the case? Are you still looking for whoever killed Chief Vick?"

His eyes narrowed angrily again.

"I'm going to find him." He growled through clenched teeth.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why does it have to be you? Why can't you let the police, the ones who aren't unofficially suspended for punching out a superior officer, handle it?"

Lassiter sat down, once again thrown for a loop by her question.

"Because." He answered finally when he decided there was nothing else to say.

"Because isn't really an answer, Detective."

"Because I should have stopped it in the first place!" He shouted, his fists involuntarily clenching.

The counselor was twirling the pen again, and once more Lassiter was transfixed by the movement. He almost didn't even realize he was still talking as his eyes followed the gentle arching motion of her hand.

"I was there…at the station. When they grabbed her. I should have heard something…I should have known. I should have stopped it. But I didn't…but if I catch the son of a bitch…if I'm the one who nails him…"

He paused, his nostrils slowly flaring in and out as he realized with some horror that he had just said it out loud.

Everything he had been thinking…everything he had fighting against for so long…and he had just said it.

He clamped his mouth shut again, but it was too late.

His watch alarm beeped.

"That's time, Detective." The counselor smiled softly. "But it's a darn good thing we didn't talk about it."

* * *

* * *

  


* * *

  


Lassiter made it halfway across the counselor's parking lot before he heard the voice behind him.

"Hey, Lassie!"

He groaned and slowly turned around.

_Damn it!_

_Why the hell did I have to say I wanted his help…?_

"Spencer! How the _hell_ did you know--"

He stopped asking the question when he saw the knowing grin on Shawn's face.

"Never mind," he scowled, turning back to his car.

"You know, Lassie." Shawn quipped drily, jogging to catch up with the detective. "If you keep reacting like this every time I show up, I'm going to start thinking you don't really want me around."

"I _don't_ want you around!"

"You asked for my help!"

"I was drunk!"

"Check your rulebook!" Shawn snapped, jumping into Lassiter's passenger seat and slamming the door. "Drunk requests for help are legally-binding. Just like drunk marriage proposals and drunk bank loan applications…don't ask me how I know that."

Lassiter grimaced as he slid behind the wheel, glaring spitefully at the persistent psychic.

"I don't need help."

"Okay," Shawn shrugged nonchalantly, pretending to go for the door. "Then I guess you can find Howard James all by yourself."

The automatic lock suddenly clicked, trapping Shawn inside the car.

"How do you know about James?" Lassiter demanded darkly, his voice suddenly dangerously quiet.

"I'm psychic."

"You're an ass. Did O'Hara tip you off?"

"No. Why?" Shawn blinked innocently. "Is Jules looking for him, too?"

"Shut up." Lassiter barked sharply. "What do you know about James?"

His knuckles were chalk-white against the black steering wheel, his nails digging into the soft plastic. He turned his head and looked at Shawn, his eyes suddenly blazing with hatred.

"I know you and Jules think he killed Chief Vick," Shawn answered quietly. "I know he jumped parole and you're looking for him. And I know that you're not going to find him without my help."

"I don't need help, Spencer."

"Then you shouldn't have asked for it. You're stuck now, Lassie. I'm in whether you like it or not."

Their eyes locked stubbornly. Neither of them were backing down. Not this time.

The automatic lock clicked again, and Shawn was suddenly free.

"Get the hell out of my car," Lassiter growled.

"No."

"Spencer!"

"I'm not leaving."

"Fine!" Lassiter snapped, snatching his keys out of the ignition and getting out himself.

Shawn watched silently as he stormed away, but didn't make a move to follow him.

* * *

Lassiter was still awake when the phone rang later that night.

Of course he was still awake.

He didn't even try to sleep anymore.

He was huddled over his small kitchen table, pouring over the file Juliet had given him that afternoon for the millionth time, trying to figure out where to start his investigation in the morning.

He glanced at his microwave clock as the first silence-shattering ring pealed though the house.

1:37 AM.

For a minute, he almost didn't answer it.

_It has to be Spencer…_

_Who else could it be…?_

He let it ring five or six times, but finally gave in and picked it up.

_He might have something…_

_A break…_

"What?" He barked into the receiver.

"Detective Lassiter? Sir?"

The voice was quiet and hesitant, but he recognized it immediately.

His grip on the phone loosened ever so slightly.

It wasn't Spencer….

"McNab?" He barked. "What the hell--?"

"Sorry to bother you, Sir…" Buzz pressed on quickly, as if trying to get it all out in one breath. "It's just that…I'm at the scene right now…and I thought I should tell you…"

"What scene? What the hell are you talking about?" Lassiter growled impatiently, cutting him off.

Even if he hadn't been sleeping, it was still too damn early in the morning to play guessing games.

There was a pause on Buzz's end as he searched for the right words.

"Detective O'Hara's apartment, Sir…" He said finally, his voice barely raising above a whisper now. "I'm there right now with the crime scene unit…"

Lassiter's eyes narrowed, his fingers tightening around the phone again.

"O'Hara's apartment is crime scene?" He repeated quietly.

"Yes, Sir." Buzz confirmed. "She's missing…the crime scene guys said it looks like someone followed her inside…there was a struggle…the Chief's on his way, but he won't be here for a while…I thought you'd want to know…"

Lassiter didn't say anything.

He couldn't have if he tried.

He stared blankly down at the receiver in his hand, then slowly put it back on the cradle without another word and grabbed his keys.

He began to head for the door, but suddenly stopped short.

Before he knew what he was doing, he had fished his cell phone out of his pocket and was dialing.

"Spencer!" He barked when Shawn finally answered. "Where the hell are you?"


	4. Chapter 4

Shawn and Lassiter arrived on the scene at the same time.

For once, Lassiter didn't object to the psychic's presence.

For once, knowing he wasn't alone actually made him feel somewhat better, though his stomach was churning at the thought of what was probably happening to his partner. His mind kept flashing back to the image of Vick's body washed up on the shore…the inch deep grooves in her wrists…the blood…

_Not O'Hara, too…_

_I can't fail twice…not like this…_

"What the hell is going on?" Shawn demanded the moment he saw Lassiter. They ducked under the yellow police tape and walked into the apartment building together.

"It's James," Lassiter growled. "It has to be."

Shawn stopped, all the blood draining from his face.

"You don't think--" he started, already choking on the words.

Lassiter's jaw set.

He didn't think.

He refused to think.

"It has to be."

They stepped inside Juliet's apartment, where Buzz was waiting for them, along with the crime scene unit. When he saw them, he nervously glanced down at his watch.

"The Chief should be here in a few minutes," he said quietly. "I don't know if--"

"I'm not leaving until I find out what the hell happened." Lassiter snapped, his eyes already sweeping the room, which looked like a tornado had hit it.

The small coffee table was overturned, and the indentations in the plush carpet showed the couch had been pushed far out of its usual position.

"The chain lock's broken," Shawn whispered hoarsely, looking at the door they had just entered through so he wouldn't have to look at the apartment. "She tried to lock him out. He must've followed her…kicked it in before she got the deadbolt on…"

All his usual glib psychic mannerisms were gone, replaced by a somber, burning determination to see everything.

"Did anyone hear anything?" Lassiter asked Buzz.

Buzz shook his head.

"Detective Sierra called me in to knock on doors, but I couldn't find anyone who was home tonight when it happened. One of Detective O'Hara's neighbors got home around midnight and saw her door open. He came in to see if she was okay, and called it in when he saw the blood."

He gestured down at the carpet immediately in front of the door, where the blood stain was already drying into a sickening brown smear.

"I hope it's his." Lassiter muttered under his breath. "I hope she got off one good shot…"

Shawn nodded in grim agreement, trying to look away from the bloodstain.

But he couldn't….

Neither of them could.

Shawn finally managed to tear himself away and began to look around the apartment, not even sure what he hoped to find.

Lassiter's eyes were still fixed on the stain. He couldn't escape the thoughts anymore.

_The bastard kept the Chief alive for two days…_

_Two days…_

_Right now, the only hope O'Hara has is if he wants to torture her before he kills her…_

His stomach lurched as it suddenly struck him how twisted the logic was.

_Torture is her only hope…_

He didn't hear Brighton enter the apartment behind him, didn't hear him yell his name. He didn't know anyone else was even in the room until he felt the hand on his shoulder, violently spinning him around.

"I said what the hell are you doing here, Lassiter?" Brighton was shouting as Lassiter finally snapped back into reality.

He stumbled, taken aback by the sudden assault, but managed to shake free of the claw-like grip. He had to restrain his natural instinct to deck the man.

Shawn was watching the exchange from the other side of the apartment, his eyes darting back and forth between the two warring parties. Buzz was standing in the doorway, his arms crossed, looking vaguely like a child caught in the middle of a nasty divorce.

"_Someone_ has to stop people from killing cops!" Lassiter snapped back, for a moment forgetting this man held his career in his hands. "And it sure as hell isn't going to be _you!_"

As he watched Brighton's face contort through a thousands shades of purple and red rage, he suddenly remembered.

Brighton could take his badge for good.

Brighton could have him arrested.

Even after it all started to come back to him, he didn't give a damn.

None of it seemed to matter anymore.

Brighton's hawk-like gaze was turned rancorously on Buzz now.

"Just how the hell did you even know O'Hara was missing?" He demanded, his angular nose pointed at his new quarry. "It hasn't even gone out over the scanner yet."

Buzz quietly cleared his throat, ready to confess everything, but Lassiter stepped in before he could.

"Spencer's a psychic." He growled, thrusting his thumb in Shawn's general direction. "What the hell do you care?"

Brighton spun around again, his eyes narrowing at Lassiter.

"You're both tampering with a crime scene."

"What tipped you off it's a crime scene?" Lassiter muttered, pushing past the new Chief and marching towards the door, just wanting to find his missing partner. "The blood and the bright yellow tape?"

He could hear Shawn's footsteps behind him, quickly catching up. But before he could step back into the hall, Brighton's voice cut through the thick air like an axe.

"You're pretty damn high and mighty for someone who got a cop killed."

He stopped in the doorway, frozen by the shot to the gut.

Slowly, he turned around again, his fists already clenching.

Shawn saw he was on the edge.

"Don't do it, Lassie…" he murmured, eyeing the Chief cautiously.

The Chief knew he had Lassiter now. He grinned cruelly.

"You heard me, Lassiter." He spat disdainfully. "I'm not an idiot. I know what you think about me. I know you think I blew the investigation…"

He paused, taking a slow step towards the detective.

"But just remember this. _I'm _not the one who was at the precinct the night they grabbed Vick. _I'm_ not the one who didn't hear anything. And _I'm_ not the one who let my partner get abducted tonight."

Lassiter couldn't hold it back anymore.

This was his breaking point.

Before he even knew what was happening, his fist was flying through the air…just like last time…

A split second before he connected with Brighton's face, however, Shawn stepped in and slugged the Chief.

Right in the nose.

Lassiter blinked in surprise as Brighton's head snapped back in a spray of blood, his fist falling limply by his side.

Shawn looked just as surprised as anyone else.

"Spencer! What the hell--?"

Shawn stared down at his fist in stupefied shock, then looked up at Lassiter.

Their eyes locked, and for perhaps for the first time in their lives, they understood each other.

"I promised Jules I wouldn't let you do anything stupid." He said, just loudly enough for Lassiter to hear. "But I didn't say anything about me doing something stupid…"

Brighton had recovered from the shock of the blow, and already had his cuffs in his hand.

"Just find her." Shawn said quietly. "Just find her."


	5. Chapter 5

_"…Whoever killed her had a boat, or access to a boat…"_

Juliet's words, some of the last she had spoken to him, thundered through Lassiter's mind as he pulled into the marina where Howard James had once kept a boat docked.

He couldn't suppress the images anymore…the premonitions…O'Hara…washed up on the beach, her throat slit…just like the Chief…her eyes open and vacant, staring past him…

He couldn't let it happen.

Not again.

_His M.O. for the kidnappings was similar…_

_Which means he's probably planning on dumping O'Hara, too…_

_If I can just find the boat…_

_If I can just get there in time…_

_…If she's even still alive…_

His hand instinctively reached for the radio to call in his position, but he quickly pulled it back again when he realized it wouldn't do him any good.

Not this time.

_I'm not a cop anymore._

_I don't have any back-up…_

_…And what good did back-up do Karen, anyway?_

He tossed the radio aside as he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out his gun and a flashlight, knowing this time he was completely alone.

This time, he didn't even have Shawn tagging along.

He stepped out of the car and surveyed the dark docks in front of him, his stomach sinking hopelessly.

"Needle in a haystack" didn't even begin to describe what he was up against.

_How am I supposed to find her…?_

_How do I even know she's here…?_

_Even if one of these boats is his…how the hell am I supposed to find it…?_

_Would he bring her here before he killed her…?_

He slowly made his way up one of the piers, his ears straining to hear something…_anything…_that would tell him Juliet was still alive as his eyes followed the beam of light, sweeping over and through each boat.

But the only sound was the gentle lapping of the waves against the boats.

He reached the end of the first pier and quickly turned around again, convinced he was no closer to finding his partner than he had been when he arrived.

_I'm wasting my time…_

_There has to be a better lead…_

_There has to be something more…_

He made his way back to the shore and started up a second pier. Ten steps down it, his light hit something on the wooden planks.

Something red…

Blood.

There were only a few drops of it, but as he crouched next to the splatters and examined them more closely, he was sure that they were blood.

He stood up again, peering down the long dock as far as his limited vision would allow.

_She's here…_

_Somewhere…_

_She has to be…_

But as he slowly crept along, he still couldn't hear anything.

No moans.

No screams.

No signs of life at all.

He checked each boat, but none of them had any discernable traces of blood.

None of them had a body, either.

_At least there's no body…_

He reached the small boathouse at the end of the pier, once again having found absolutely nothing.

He slowly began to turn around to start another sweep of the dock, but as he did, his light hit the boathouse door.

Something red glinted in the beam.

_…Is that blood…?_

He stepped up to the door.

Sure enough, there was blood…splattered right where someone would have grabbed it as they pushed it open…

Without a second thought, he kicked the door open, his gun ready to meet the hail of bullets he almost expected to greet him.

But the shed was completely silent.

Silent and dark.

He stepped in cautiously, his light following the few drop of blood that speckled the floor.

"O'Hara?" He whispered into the pitch black, holding his breath for an answer.

None came.

"O'Hara?" He spoke louder this time, lowering his gun by his side.

His light had covered almost every inch of the boathouse now, without a single sign of life beyond the few drops of blood.

He took another step in, focusing the beam on the coils of rope that were stacked in the back.

Nothing.

But then he heard it.

A muffled groan…

At least, he _thought_ he heard it…

He stopped breathing, tried to will his heart to stop pounding, so he could hear the sound again…

_I know I heard something…_

His eyes were frantically darting around the small boathouse now, straining desperately to see everything…

But he didn't hear the groan again, and he didn't hear the wooden plank being swung through the air at his head.

The blow connected with his skull, sending him toppling to the ground in a painful, disoriented heap. He felt the gun go flying out of his hand, heard it land somewhere…somewhere out of reach…

The flashlight was off now…probably smashed to bits in his fall…

As he rolled out of the way of another crushing blow and somehow managed to stumble to his feet, he couldn't see anything but the dark figure looming in front of him.

He didn't have to see the face to know who it was.

Howard James.

Before Lassiter could react, he was leveled again by the plank, which sent him sprawling against the back wall. He collapsed to the ground again, but this time landed on something hard that felt like it snapped at least a few of his ribs in the impact.

_My gun…?_

He struggled to catch his breath as his fingers closed around the familiar trigger.

"Police! Don't move!" He gasped, finally managing to climb to his feet, leveling the gun at the silhouette's head. "And tell me where the hell my partner is!"

_I can hit him between the eyes if I have to…_

_Even in the dark…_

_I can see his head…I can hit him between the eyes…_

But James didn't heed the warning, and he didn't respond to the demand. He dropped the plank, but his head had turned to the side now, away from Lassiter. It was too dark for Lassiter to see what he was looking at, but he was clearly looking for something.

_Does he have a gun stashed in here somewhere…?_

"Don't move!" Lassiter ordered again, his breathing easier now, though each breath was still racked with pain.

Lassiter suddenly saw the flash of an object in his hand, an object that was aimed directly at him…it was too dark to see what it was…

_Is it a gun…?_

"Drop it or I'll shoot!"

But James didn't drop it.

"Drop it! I'll shoot!"

James slowly raised his arm level with Lassiter's head, pointing the object at his skull.

Lassiter could see it well enough now.

It was definitely a gun.

"Drop it!" He ordered one last time, before pulling his own trigger when the command went unheeded.

James fell lifelessly to the floor, the gun sliding across the boathouse, striking Lassiter's foot.

Even as he bent down and picked it up, he knew something was wrong.

_Oh, God…_

_It's too light…_

_There's no clip in it…_

_…It's empty…_


	6. Chapter 6

Lassiter's head was pounding as he sat in the interrogation room, still completely alone.

He knew he had been in there for at least an hour, but he had lost track of time as he faded in and out of consciousness. The blood was still flowing from the gash in his head, mingling with his hair.

He gingerly touched the wound, then wiped his red fingers off on his pants.

_Damn plank did more damage than I thought…_

Finally, the door opened and Brighton stepped in.

"Where's O'Hara?" Lassiter demanded before he could say anything.

He had found her a few minutes after he shot James; her unconscious body discarded behind a crate. Her face was bruised and swollen, and her hands had been bound so tightly behind her back with duct tape that when the paramedics arrived, they weren't sure they could cut it off without slicing her wrists.

He had radioed it in the moment he'd found her, and was taken into custody as soon as Brighton arrived on the scene and saw James with a bullet hole through his skull.

Lassiter had been in interrogation, alone, ever since.

They hadn't even told him if O'Hara was still alive…

Brighton blinked at the question, seriously considering just telling him to go to hell, but he finally shrugged and answered.

"Still unconscious, but she'll live. The son of a bitch broke damn near all her ribs. She won't be going anywhere for a while."

Lassiter nodded, trying to collect the words and assemble them into some kind of coherent thought, but the persistent buzzing in his ears was growing louder by the minute.

_Damn plank…_

Brighton was standing over him now, glaring down at him with a look of unabashed hatred.

"Why don't you just tell me what the hell happened." He said quietly.

Lassiter looked up at him, his eyes starting to glaze over.

"Bastard pulled a Suicide by Cop." He mumbled. "He knew the gun wasn't loaded…he _wanted_ me to shoot him."

"Suicide by Cop?" Brighton repeated almost angrily. "You expect me to believe _that?_"

"Yeah," Lassiter nodded firmly. "You know all those books they gave you at the Academy? If you ever actually looked at one, you'd know it happens. He heard me identify myself as a cop, heard me warn him to drop the weapon or I'd shoot. He didn't drop the weapon. He aimed the damn thing at my head. He _knew _I was going to shoot him. He _knew_ I didn't know it wasn't loaded. He wanted to die. What the hell was I supposed to do?"

"Pretty convenient…" Brighton said coolly. "The bastard you want to kill happens to want you to kill him."

Lassiter didn't say anything.

He stared down at the table, fighting to stay in the moment, but his mind kept drifting in and out of the conversation.

"Just why would he want you to kill him?" Brighton pressed on.

Lassiter shrugged.

"How the hell should I know? He already killed one cop and was working on killing another. Maybe he knew what they do to cop killers. Maybe he figured it was the easiest way out."

"Maybe you shot an unarmed man in the head and dropped a gun to make it _look_ like self-defense. That happens, too." Brighton accused, his eyes narrowing as he loomed over Lassiter. "You see, I _did_ read the books at the Academy."

"If I dropped the gun, it would've been loaded." Lassiter muttered. "Trust me."

"Maybe it all happened so fast you didn't have time to load it after you called it in."

Lassiter glared at him, rubbing his throbbing wound again.

"Did I hit myself in the back of the head with a board, too?"

"Maybe."

"God, you really are a moron." Lassiter growled, standing up on his unsteady feet. Brighton shoved him back down again, bringing his face inches away from Lassiter's. His nose was still swollen, and there was the remains of a black rim around his right eye. Lassiter almost grinned at the memories…_almost…_

"I could be the biggest moron on the face of the earth, Lassiter," Brighton hissed, his voice low and threatening. "I could be the biggest goddamn moron on the face of the earth, and it wouldn't matter. Not for you. Not now. Your little self-defense story might get you out of murder charges with the D.A., but it sure as hell won't fly with I.A.B. You were suspended. You shouldn't have been there at all. You had no right to be there."

He stood up, his lip curling in a victorious sneer.

"You're done, Lassiter. By the time I get through pulling every string I have and deposing every cop who saw you deck me, you'll be lucky if _all_ you lose is your badge. But even if I can't get you charged, no city in the country is going to touch a rogue killer cop with a temper. I'll make _damn_ sure of that."

Lassiter stared down at the table silently, knowing he was defeated even through the muddled thoughts.

For the first time in his life, he knew he was defeated.

* * *

"It sounds like you have a good case for self-defense," the counselor said quietly. "You could fight it."

For once, when he had stormed into her office, Lassiter hadn't made the pretense of not wanting to talk.

The story had come tumbling out of him almost before he hit the chair.

He sat back now, his eyes hardening.

"Probably."

"But you won't?"

"No."

"Why not?"

He stood up again, beginning his slow, familiar pace between the door and the chair.

"Because I'd have to say under oath that I didn't murder the bastard. I'd have to say I didn't have a choice."

"So?"

He stopped pacing, his eyes meeting hers squarely.

"I didn't have a choice. I know I didn't…he gave me a reason to shoot…but I was hoping he would. I _wanted_ him to give me a reason. I _wanted_ him to pull a gun so I could put a bullet between his eyes. I wouldn't have done it if he hadn't…but I'm damn glad he did. "

* * *

Lassiter didn't even look up as Shawn collapsed onto the barstool next to him.

He just polished off his third scotch and slammed the glass down, trying to pretend like he didn't notice the psychic.

"Hey, Lassie." Shawn greeted quietly, after waiting in vain for a few minutes for Lassiter to say something.

"Spencer."

Shawn took the beer the bartender offered him, thoughtfully popping the top and taking a long sip.

"What'd you do? Tunnel your way out of jail?" Lassiter asked finally, when it became clear Shawn wasn't going anywhere.

Shawn laughed.

"I almost had to. Brighton's good. All the paperwork on my arrest mysteriously vanished. It took three days to even get arraigned. I'm out on bail."

"What'd they charge you with?"

"Assault…interfering with a police investigation…the usual…" Shawn shrugged. "If they all stick, I'll serve a couple of months. If they don't, I might be able to get off with community service."

Lassiter nodded, still looking straight ahead, refusing to meet Shawn's eyes.

Shawn took another sip of his beer before continuing.

"I went to see Jules today," he said softly. "She can still barely talk…but she's worried about you. You haven't been to the hospital to see her."

"No," Lassiter agreed, seriously debating the merits of a fourth scotch. "I haven't."

"You saved her life, Lassie."

"Yeah."

"So…you should go see her."

"Shut up, Spencer."

Lassiter finally decided he did need that fourth scotch.

Shawn watched silently as he took the first sip before eventually pressing on.

"He's wrong, Lassie. You know he's wrong. You can fight it. You can get your badge back."

Lassiter drained his glass, his dark eyes growing far away as he stared blankly down at the bar.

"Probably."

"I know a lawyer--"

"Shut up, Spencer."

"Okay."

Shawn turned around in his stool, resting his elbows on the edge of the bar.

"What are you going to do?" He asked quietly. "If you're not a cop?"

Lassiter shrugged, slowly standing up and dropping a few crumpled bills on the counter.

"I don't know. Drink mostly."

"You can't spend the rest of your life drinking."

"Why not?"

But he didn't wait to hear the answer he knew Shawn had ready. He just turned on his heel and walked away.

He didn't make it more than three steps, however, before Shawn's voice stopped him in his tracks.

"You know my dad was a cop, Lassie."

Lassiter slowly turned back around, his eyes narrowing suspiciously at the psychic.

"Yeah. I know. So what?" He demanded.

Shawn slowly finished the last of his beer and calmly set the glass bottle on the bar, seemingly unaware of Lassiter's scowl.

"So, I grew up at the station."

"What the hell does that have to do with--"

"Shut up, Lassie. Just listen. I grew up with cops. I've known hundreds of them. Thousands, probably. But I've only ever relentlessly tormented one."

Lassiter blinked slowly.

"What's your point, Spencer?"

"You can't walk away. You have to fight this."

Their eyes locked, and for only the second time in their lives they understood each other.

Lassiter shook his head slowly.

"I'm not walking away from anything, Spencer." He said quietly, heading for the door without so much as glance back over his shoulder. "There's nothing left to walk away from."


End file.
